


Before Alternate Universes and Infinity Stones

by Vestina



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christine is a badass doctor, Consensual Sex, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Lots of sarcasm, References to Sherlock Holmes (ch2), References to The Avengers, a touch of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8539876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vestina/pseuds/Vestina
Summary: "Logically, she knew better than to fall for his arrogance."Set in the years before the movie. Two shot. Romance with a bit of comedy, mostly in the form of sarcasm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the movie last weekend and absolutely loved the idea that Palmer and Strange already had a past. Of course, then I had to know what that past was, and since there is relatively little fanfiction so far, I just had to write one. This is the piece that resulted...

Her first day at Metro-General Hospital stands vividly in her mind as the worst day of her life.

The raindrops smeared down her car windows and fucked with the friction of her tires.

She reported for duty in the surgery unit five minutes before eight.

And stared at the punch card machine, unable to recall how to work the damned thing.

And then he strolled in, incessantly snapping his rubber gloves against his skin. He didn’t even greet her, merely elbowed past, rinsing his hands under the sink.

“Hey,” she said. “Can you remind me how to use this thing?”

“Hmm?” His head turned over his shoulder, the look on his face suggesting surprise that she was even standing there.

She pointed at the machine.

He snorted through his nose. And walked out the door without another look.

She wanted to shout, “Asshole!” down the hallway at him, but doubted that it was a good way to start her career.

Of course she was assigned to his team.

He threw a hissy fit about how the incompetent new arrivals fucked with his success rate.

“You have a quite literally flawless record, Dr. Strange,” the director said in a flat voice. “I doubt she can tarnish that in a matter of minutes.”

An hour later she was in surgery with him to remove a particularly feisty tumor from a lung cancer patient.

“Scalpel,” he said, and she set it in his hand. “ _Three_ millimeter. Not five.” She promptly replaced it.

She went home that night and barely held in her tears, calling up her college roommate Harper and bitched about the asshat who made her life hell.

* * *

It continued that way for a few weeks.

Until she corrected Nicodemus West, pointing out that the method he used to treat a pulmonary embolisms was wildly ineffective.

Strange snickered over her shoulder. “She’s right, you know. My little newbie bested you.”

She whipped back to face him. “I am not yours.”

“Palmer,” he said, “You may not be so bad after all.”

* * *

He started consulting her more, even after she was moved to head her own team. He’d show up in her office, raving blindly about his hatred for Dr. West.

“How is that man so incompetent? How does he not understand how the circulatory system work? Did he just skip that part of med-school?”

“I think he just skipped med-school altogether,” she says sarcastically, mostly to appease him.

And he actually cracks a smile at that.

Sometimes he’d bring her cases. X-ray slides that he needs a second opinion for. “If I went in at a fifteen degree angle-”

“No, you’d rupture the blood vessel.”

“I could stitch it back up.”

“Not before the blood completely obscures everything you’re looking at!”

“If I cauterize-”

“No,” she interrupts. “To risky. Try going in over here. From the other side.”

He looked at it carefully for a moment. “Damnit. You’re right.”

“This is strange,” the medical director told her. “No pun intended. He doesn’t consult others.”

Sometimes though, when a patient had her really stuck, she went to him. And while it degraded her to listen to him solve her issues so quickly, a sick part of her liked watching his mind work. She found herself making excuses to go visit his office.

* * *

 

“Come on,” he said one night after a particularly rough shift.

“What?”

“We’re getting a drink. Or maybe five.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit presumptuous?”

“It’s a drink, Palmer. I’m not trying to get in your pants.”

They got several long stares from the nurse staff as they left. She tried not to think about the inevitable rumors to spring up about the two of them.

They sat at the bar, and she asked him polite questions about his childhood, his residency, his apartment.

He paused after a query about childhood pets. “Do you know why I like you?”

“What?”

“...Do I need to repeat-”

“No. No, I’m just not sure how to answer.”

He cracked a smile at that. “You aren’t shit like the rest of them. All these yuppie doctors who floundered their way through med school. Now they're incompetent surgeons fucking up the lives of patients everywhere.”

She just stared at him.

“Oh, come on,” he said, with a momentary eye roll. “You can't tell me you have respect for any of those idiots.”

“I respect Charlotte! She’s a brilliant pathologist.”

“And anyone else?”

She rolled her eyes and went back to her drink.

* * *

 

Spring, 2012.

She had transferred to be an ER surgeon three months before.  

Her shift had nearly ended when the first emergency calls came in.

Largely, she had ignored the sketchy reports of Norse gods and green giants. Tony Stark was an idiot in a suit, but not particularly impactful on her life.

Until then.

One of the nurses paled when the ambulances rushed in. “I haven’t seen this kind damage since 9/11.”

They had nowhere near enough staff to keep up with the influx of patients. And when she sees a man come in with a steel rod through his frontal lobe that she has no hope of gracefully removing, she calls him.

“Stephen, where are you, and why is it not in the emergency room?”

“You know I don’t do ER work because it risks-”

“Get over your perfect record and get your ass down here. I know you just got done with a surgery.”

He didn’t answer.

“Stephen?”

“I’m coming.”

It took him ten minutes longer than it should have, but he snapped a mask over his face as he walked into her operation room.

“I need you to take this out of this man’s head.”

“You aren’t even going to say hello?”

“Stephen, I have seven hundred people in my waiting room who need emergency attention. You will take this metal rod out of this man’s head, and then you will report back to me for another assignment. Is that clear?”

“I still have the right to refuse patients.”

“No you don’t. Do the operation and save this man’s life. Unless you don’t think you can.”

“Don’t goad me, Dr. Palmer. I might actually do what you want me to.

But she’s already turned her back.

* * *

 

She hadn’t always wanted to be a doctor. She tried journalism her first semester of college, but switched to Pre-Med after a few weeks.

Journalism was only about people’s issues. With healthcare she could actually do something help them.

She found Harper through a random assignment of roommates her sophomore year. Unable to make any friends her first year that she liked enough to consider rooming with, she had gone up for the lottery.

Harper was... Harper was somehow just like her. An ultra-competitive pre-med student who couldn’t care less about making petty friends in college.

Sometimes, she would walk into their apartment and Harper would be there on the ground, her notes strewn in a haphazard circle around her, devouring an entire pizza from the little joint on the corner.

Harper had done a year in the Peace Corp after they graduated and since then had never stayed in the same city for more than a year. However, they stayed in touch: one Skype call per week, Sunday morning, ten a.m. eastern, no excuses.

Harper would bitch about the couple upstairs and their inhuman sex drives. (“I kid you not, they went a solid twelve hours. I swear it went from nine to nine. Literally heard the entire thing. How can you still have the voice to scream after hour four?”)

And Christine would bitch about her new job. How the hours were shit and how she got minimal benefits. (“They’re a fucking hospital! Some decent health insurance would make sense, right?”)

And so it didn’t really matter that she didn’t have a lot of friends in the city because she had her work, and she had Harper, and really, what more was there?

* * *

 

She realized he didn’t have any friend outside of work on a Tuesday morning in January.

He barged into her office, holding little regard for her closed door. “Do you have a couch longer than six feet?”

It always gave her whiplash to talk to him. He seemingly could not understand that her brain was not always in the same place as his. “I haven’t measured it.”

He fidgets, tapping his toe against her carpet.  “I need a place to stay. One week, maybe two. Hopefully not three.”

“You want to sleep on my couch?”

“The heat in my building is out, and I can’t stay there for another second.”

“Why don’t you just buy a new apartment?” she asked sarcastically.

“That’s the idea, but it will take at least a week to get any paperwork processed, and in that time, I need somewhere to stay.”

She thought about her tiny little place. She bought it as a first year med-student, and never found the time to upgrade to a larger apartment.

She shook her head dismissively. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine.”  

“Perfect. So I need your address.”

She handed him a Post-it Note with the numbers scrawled across it in blue pen.

And hoped this wasn’t an enormous mistake.

* * *

 

The rap on the door came promptly at eight. He stood on the other side of the door as rigid as his suitcase.

“I’m not sure this place passes all of the necessary health code laws, Christine. There was definitely a rat in the hallway.”

“You could go sleep at your mother’s place.” He rolls his eyes and pushes past her.

“And this couch-” He caught himself when he saw the look she shot him. “Is a gorgeous piece of antique furniture.”

“I’m making tea, if you want some.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“Not tonight,” she said flatly, tipping the contents of the kettle into the first cup and pausing over the second.

“Sure,” he said with the flip of his hand. Unzipped the suitcase, pulling out a large book onto her coffee table.

She set the cup on the coffee table with an audible thud, hot tea splashing over the side.

“Mmh, thanks,” he muttered, lost in the text.

She brought him a few blankets and a flat pillow, not that he noticed, and retreated into her bedroom.

She only emerged once in the middle of the night, her bladder aching to pee. The moonlight fell through her slotted blinds, leaving white streaks across his body. She’d never seen him so peaceful, his form lifting and falling with his breath.

She tried not to think about the fact that she could see his bare shoulders peeking from under the blanket.

* * *

 

And that was the beginning.

And she admirably ignored every one of those pesky feelings of attraction toward him.

He was an arrogant bastard with few appealing qualities.

Except that he talked to her like he actually enjoyed her company.

But she enjoyed his friendship. Probably more than she should. She knew she took work too seriously, and with Harper in Boston, he was sort of her best friend.

“Harper, what I do?” she asked over their Skype call.

“Fuck another guy. See what happens.”

“No. Never have I fucked a stranger and had it be a good experience.”

“Aw, Christine. Then I guess you live in angst for months until he gets transferred to another hospital and you are sad forever.”

“Thanks, Harper. That was exactly what I needed to hear...”

* * *

 

It probably wasn’t as out of the blue as she first thought it was. In her mind the tension had only been building on her end.

He was sitting behind her desk, hastily filling in medical reports. “Stephen,” she said. “Not sure if you’re aware, but that’s my desk.”

“I’m aware of everything. Also, your workspace is significantly messier than mine.”

She didn’t respond to that. Waited for him to explain himself.

He looked up. “We should have sex.”

And there it was. Her lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out.

“You shouldn’t be surprised. I find you attractive. You obviously find me attractive-”

“Obviously? God, you really are that arrogant.”

“Oh, get off it, you been making moony eyes at me for a month.”

She wanted to retort “Have not!” like an elementary student, but valiantly resisted. Instead she pointed at the door. “Get out.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been told I’m quite the genius in bed. It will definitely be enjoyable.”

“Stephen, get out of my office.”

“Fine,” he said, rising from her chair. “But the offer still stands. Eight o’clock tonight? It should be nice for you to get out of your rat-infested apartment.”

* * *

 

She valiantly resisted going over to his apartment. Instead, she curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and her cat, and the newest episode of Grey’s Anatomy, and tried not to think about the fact that he slept on this couch a few months ago.

Luckily the cushions don’t smell like him.

Not that she smelled them in the first place.

Thankfully, he didn’t bring the suggestion up again.

But maybe that was because she actively avoided him in the hospital. Assigned herself more shifts and worked on projects with other doctors.

Locked the door to her office so he couldn’t interrupt her.

Was she acting like a child? Of course. He even pointed it out after an afternoon briefing. 

“Christine, you’re acting like a child.”

“Fine. Let’s get a drink after work then.”

“Can’t. I’m speaking at a symposium tonight. But you’re more than welcome to join me.

She glared at him through narrow eyes for a long moment. “Fine.” She fucking hated symposiums, but if he sat next to her for most of it, whispering sarcastic comments about the incompetence of prominent neurosurgeons, it could be bearable.

Also she missed him.

So she donned a form fitting green dress and a smear of nude lipgloss, and sat there as he lectured at New York’s finest surgeons about innovative procedures.

He took the seat next to her in the lecture hall when he finished, leaving the stage for other stuffy intellectuals to sell their pharmaceutical products.

She kept her eyes facing forward when he ran his thumb along the side of her hand resting on the arm rest. She shivered at his cool touch though.

“Christine...” came his low voice.

“Later.”

And finally, the line-up of stuffy, old, white men concluded, and they exited, her hand in the crook of his elbow.

He hailed a taxi, and just as she reached out to do the same, gestured for her to get in the back.

“Stephen, I can’t” she protested.

“One drink. My place. I promise no sex if you don’t want it.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being a gentleman or an asshole, but she supposed she didn’t care.

The rode the way to his place in silence. But she reached over and took his hand, smoothing out his fingers, tracing the creases. Pulled away as his fingers closed around hers.

* * *

 

Once in his apartment, after he offered her a glass of whiskey that she promptly drank, she snapped.

“What the hell do you want, Stephen? Because we either figure out how to do this right, or we don’t do it at all."

“And by ‘do it right’ you are referring to...”

“Damn it, we’re co-workers! And I can’t walk into work everyday thinking about the fact that I’ve seen you naked!”

He shrugged. “I told you we didn't have to have sex if you didn't want it.”

“I want it, I just need it to be easy. I'm not going through some long, drawn out, passive aggressive bullshit with you if this goes poorly.”

“Here's the thing: I don't think it will.”

“How the fuck are you so arrogant about everything?”

“We can try it. If it goes poorly, we revert to an earlier stage of our relationship and pretend it never happened. And if it goes well, as it most likely will, we could try it again.”

Damnit, he sparked her curiosity. And she hadn’t been able get him out of her head for awhile.

She took his hand again, uncurling his fingers, pressing her thumb into his palm. Let him interlace their fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing softly against her index finger.

Her other hand curled against the back of his neck, dragging him down. Their noses brushed once, twice...

She should have known he’d kiss like fire. That even with the gentleness of the moment, his lips would urge for more. The stubble down his jaw brushed her chin roughly, and she pulled back to breathe, her teeth snagging his lower lip with the drawback. His grin turned wicked as his fingers dig into her hips, urging her back against the wall.

“Fuck,” she muttered into his lips.

He pulled back. “You’ve got to make a decision, Palmer.”

“Fine, yes.”

“That doesn’t sound like you actually want to.”

“Fuck it. I do. I actually want to.”

* * *

 

The last sex she had was with a guy her sister had set her on a blind date with. The guy, Chad, had suggested rock climbing as a “rad way to get to know a partner.”

Did Chad think it was fucking cool and hipster to use the word rad? Unfortunately.

Did he insist on using it in bed as well? Unfortunately.

“Babe, your tits are fucking rad. Fuck, it's rad how tight you are. It's going to be rad when we come together.”

They did not come together. Christine took pity on him and faked rather convincingly.

She swore off hipsters after Rad Chad.

Hell, she’d practically swore off sex altogether after Rad Chad.

Thankfully, Stephen was not a hipster.

* * *

 

She let herself fall into the feel of him, into the deliberate movements of his hands. Her breathing came in sharp bursts as his fingers slipped down her ribcage, his thumbs smoothing over the creases of her hip bones. They curled into the junction of her thighs, his touch skimming past where she achingly needed it, instead brushing farther towards her knees.

Her own hands flitted up his back, curling into fists when his touch overwhelmed her. She bit her tongue, swallowing the sounds bubbling up from the tension in her core.

Because, yes.

There was a part of her that knew this was a game to him. That knew he wanted to prove to her that he was as magnificent at sex as he was at everything else.

And there was a part of her that wanted to prove him wrong. That wanted him to fuck the way Rad Chad did, oblivious to her beneath him.

To prove that they were not as compatible as he assumed.

But of course he’d love the ego trip in getting her off first.

And so she looked away from his eyes, toward his impeccably organized closet, and grit her teeth in defiance.

He removed his hands from her skin.

“Christine.”

“Yeah?”

“You are allowed to enjoy this.”

And there was the genius of Stephen Strange. He was giving her an out, if she wanted it. Giving her the power over whether this continued or concluded, while maintaining an illusion that the power was his.

It occurred to her then how instinctively she knew him. That even though his eidetic mind could process infinitely more than hers, she still understood how it worked.

And she liked that. Liked knowing that she was one of the few people who really knew him.

And so...

“Who said I wasn’t enjoying this?” she replied with a cool smile, her fingers circling his wrists and dragging them back to her thighs. The smirk on his face pulled farther upwards.

Until she planted her feet beneath her on the mattress, distracting him ever so slightly as her legs spread wide.

And flipped him underneath her.

“So you’re not going to let me finish what I started?” he asked, amused.

“You can’t do it from down there?”

“What have I told you about goading me?”

* * *

 

She roused from a startlingly dreamless sleep.

Her body stiffened when she felt his rigid chest behind her. She carefully peeled his arm off her naked hip, cursing herself for not at least fishing her underwear from the floor before falling asleep.

His breathing shallowed, and she froze as if caught in an illicit act. Her arm curled over her breasts even as he rolled over to continue sleeping.

She cursed herself for choosing a zip up dress the night before. She had left her self-zipper pull at home not expecting to need it. She threw her arm over her shoulder hoping to catch the piece of metal half way up her back.

“Need help?” he murmured behind her, at which she jumped.

His face looked entirely too smug for so early in the morning. He propped himself up on his elbows, and gestured at her with his chin. The sheet slipped off his legs, and she maintained eye contact to avoid looking at his dick.

“I got it.” And with and amazing, borderline contortionist arm maneuver, she pulled the zipper with a satisfying _szwip._ “I have an early shift, so I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.” He stood up, walking past her, reaching out to grab a towel, and sauntered toward the bathroom.  
She tried not to stare at his ass too obviously as he left.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued! Take a second and review


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